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  Femmes Fatales restores to print the best of women’s writing in the classic pulp genres of the mid-twentieth century. From hard-boiled noir to taboo lesbian romance, these rediscovered queens of pulp offer subversive perspectives on a turbulent era.

  Faith Baldwin

  SKYSCRAPER

  Vera Caspary

  BEDELIA

  LAURA

  Dorothy B. Hughes

  THE BLACKBIRDER

  IN A LONELY PLACE

  Gypsy Rose Lee

  THE G-STRING MURDERS

  MOTHER FINDS A BODY

  Evelyn Piper

  BUNNY LAKE IS MISSING

  Olive Higgins Prouty

  NOW, VOYAGER

  Valerie Taylor

  THE GIRLS IN 3-B

  STRANGER ON LESBOS

  Tereska Torres

  WOMEN’S BARRACKS

  BY CECILE

  OLIVE HIGGINS PROUTY

  AFTERWORD BY JUDITH MAYNE

  Published by the Feminist Press

  at the City University of New York

  The Graduate Center

  365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406

  New York, NY 10016

  feministpress.org

  First Feminist Press edition, 2004

  Text copyright © 1941, 1969 by Olive Higgins Prouty

  Afterword copyright © 2004 by Judith Mayne

  Originally published in 1941 by Houghton Mifflin Co.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover and text design by Drew Stevens

  Cover photo: Bette Davis and Paul Henreid in Now, Voyager.

  Courtesy of Warner Brothers / Photofest, © Warner Brothers.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Prouty, Olive Higgins, 1882–1974

  Now, voyager / Olive Higgins Prouty ; afterword by Judith

  Mayne.—1st Feminist Press ed.

  p. cm — (Femmes fatales : women write pulp)

  ISBN 9-7815586-163-3-2

  1. Single women—Ficiton. 2. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 3. Self-realization—Fiction. 4. Women travelers—Fiction. 5. Boston (Mass.)—Fiction 6. Cruise ships—Fiction. 7. Married men—Fiction. 8. Architects—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.

  PS3531.R863N69 2004

  813'.52—dc22

  2004010066

  The Feminist Press is grateful to Sallie Bingham, Laura Brown,

  Blanche Wiesen Cook, Lis Driscoll, Barbara Grossman, Nancy Hoffman,

  Florence Howe, Betty Prashker, Susan Scanlan, and Donald C. Thomas for

  their generosity in supporting the publication of this book.

  Contents

  1: THE STRANGER

  2: LIKE CINDERELLA

  3: A SECRET SHARED

  4: MUTUAL RESPONSE

  5: WHAT OUR MEMORIES ARE

  6: THE BRIGHT MORNING

  7: BIOGRAPHICAL DETAILS

  8: BLOSSOMING OUT

  9: NOT TO BE HARNESSED

  10: THE TWO CRUSOES

  11: A FLIRTATION, BY DOCTOR’S ORDERS

  12: ON THE BALCONY

  13: THE LADY OF THE CAMELLIAS

  14: WELCOME HOME!

  15: SPEAKING OF SECOND MARRIAGES

  16: A REMINDER OF JOY

  17: A REBEL INDEED

  18: A LUCKY BREAK FOR CHARLOTTE

  19: A GIRLHOOD FRIEND

  20: A QUESTION OF TABOOS

  21: J.D. AGAIN

  22: AN UGLY WORD

  23: THE KNELL OF FOREVER

  24: THE HEIRESS

  25: CONSULTATION

  26: A TALL DARK LADY

  27: IN PLACE OF A NURSE

  28: THE DAUGHTER

  29: THE CRUCIAL TEST

  AFTERWORD

  WORKS CITED

  1

  THE STRANGER

  A blizzard was raging in New York, so she had read on the bulletin board before she left the ship. It was difficult to visualize sheets of fine snow driving obliquely against façades, while sitting on an open terrace in the sun gazing at calla lilies in bloom bordered by freesia. It was difficult, too, to believe that the scene before her was reality. It was more like a drop curtain rolled down between herself and the dull drab facts of her life.

  She sat at a small, white iron table close to a railing, keenly conscious of the sun beating down on her shoulder blades, of the burnt-nut tang of the black Indian coffee which she was sipping, and the sharp smart of unfamiliar cigarette smoke at the back of her throat. Keenly conscious, too, of the clothes she was wearing, which were not her own. She sat close to the table, knees crossed beneath its top, one foot emerging encased snugly in light amber-colored silk and a navy blue pump. She flexed the ankle up and down as if to convince herself it was hers. At the same time she raised her hand to the back of her neck. It was as irresistible as exploring the empty space left by a pulled tooth. But she mustn’t appear self-conscious when her companion returned. He said he would be gone only long enough to send a cable.

  She leaned forward on elbows lightly placed upon the tabletop and took several sips of coffee, gazing down reflectively between sips. She must tell him her name and explain why it wasn’t on the passenger list. Every time he called her Miss Beauchamp it was a reminder of the difference between herself and the vivid and vivacious Renée. And how Renée Beauchamp would hate it! She returned the cup to its saucer and raised her eyes.

  In the foreground there was a luxurious garden with glimpses of steps and portions of balustrade; in the lower left-hand corner the proverbial flower-filled urn with hanging vines; behind the urn a cliff with a cascade of purple bougainvillea falling down its face, and at the top an umbrella pine leaning out against the sky at a spectacular angle. In the distance there was a glimpse of aquamarine blue sea with boats floating on its surface.

  The largest boat was hers. It was an ocean liner, with two squat, black-banded funnels amidships, and long festoons of windows, portholes, and deck railings extending from stern to bow. The liner hailed from New York. It was the first time she had dropped anchor since she had backed out of her berth into the Hudson River. It was the first opportunity offered her passengers to feel the pressure of earth beneath their feet.

  She had not intended to come ashore at Gibraltar. It was an old story to her. She had been here with her mother many times before. But that morning, looking out of her porthole at the crooked tiers of mellow-toned old buildings crowding down close to the water’s edge beneath the jutting rock, her consciousness had been pricked by the realization of her independence. She had never wandered alone all day in any foreign city! She had dressed for the shore with something like excitement. But now she was regretting her decision. She couldn’t keep up the false role she was playing with this strange man much longer.

  She congratulated herself that she had not choked when he lit her cigarette. How surprised he would be if he knew it was the first time in her life anyone had lit her cigarette. The first time in her life she had smoked a cigarette except opposite her own reflection behind closed doors. But no more surprised than Doctor Jaquith, she imagined, if he could have seen her casually flicking ashes over a terrace railing! Doctor Jaquith would consider it a great triumph, she supposed. But she hadn’t smoked the cigarette to assert her own personality. On the contrary she’d smoked it to conceal her own personality.

  She had been the last passenger to board the las
t tender scheduled to leave for the shore trip. The tender had in fact been held for her for several minutes. She had selected a seat as far removed as possible from the other passengers, and had kept her eyes steadfastly turned away from any possible contact with another human being—studying the shoreline, following the lazy motions of the overfed Gibraltar seagulls, plainly conveying that she did not wish to be spoken to.

  She looked as if she might have been recently ill. She had little natural color, and no artificial color whatsoever. There was something that suggested old ivory about the cast and quality of her skin. Her cheekbones were high and accentuated by hollows in her cheeks. Her brows were black, well-defined, and extraordinarily far apart. Her hair was also black—what could be seen of it. It was cut very short. Her eyes were the somber blue of late-blooming monk’s hood. She was dressed in the conservative good taste that is expensive. A navy-blue costume, very plain and very perfect, with a small snug navy-blue hat on her close-cropped head. Over her shoulders hung the pelts of several little animals, probably Russian sable. She caused much comment among the other passengers because of the incongruity between her distinguished appearance and her wary manner.

  Most of the cruise passengers who had signed up for the Gibraltar trip had already left the liner on the earlier tenders. At the dock there had been only a few of the local horse-drawn vehicles left. She had engaged the last one. She was seated on its narrow back seat when the effervescing and ever-present cruise manager, Mr. Thompson, had called out from somewhere behind her, “Oh, Miss Beauchamp!” and a moment later, “Would you be so kind as to share your carriage with Mr. So-and-So?” She didn’t catch the name. “He had to go back to the tender for his guidebook. We’ll all be lunching together at one o’clock. I’ll see you both there. Thank you so much. Have a nice time.”

  Before she could think of any reason for not sharing her carriage, Mr. So-and-So was seated by her side and they were moving up the long pier toward the huddled shopping district.

  “I hope you don’t mind too much.”

  “Of course not,” she replied, as warmly as she knew how. (“Pull your own weight,” Doctor Jaquith had exhorted her that last day in his office. “We’ve taught you the proper technique. Now go ahead and practice it on this cruise. Respond! Take part! Contribute! Be interested in everything and everybody. Forget you’re a hidebound New Englander and unbend. Loosen up. Be nice to every human being who crosses your path.”)

  “We’ve already been introduced, Miss Beauchamp,” her companion informed her. “On deck two days ago, as we were passing the Azores,” and without giving her a chance to reply, “I’ve never been in Gibraltar before.” If her mother had been present this statement would instantly have placed him: not alone the fact of his limited experience, but because he mentioned it. “What an amusing conveyance this is! Built on the lines of a hansom cab. Female of the species, possibly, with all this lingerie and lace.”

  When her companion rejoined her on the terrace, he sat down opposite her and poured himself a cup of coffee from the small silver pot, blindingly bright in the sunshine.

  “I got the cable off finally,” he announced, dropping two lumps of sugar in the cup, and stirring them vigorously. He had nice hands, bony and veined, with a scattering of dark hairs on their backs, and knuckly fingers with close-cut nails. “So that’s one of the umbrella pines! And that’s a bougainvillea! And that white stuff in the garden down there is freesia blooming outdoors in March!” He took off his hat, placed it on the railing, and lifted his face to the sun. “Isn’t this heat simply marvelous!”

  Until then she would have said his eyes were brown, but now with the sun shining straight into them she saw that they were blue with brown flecks. The blue was a deep indigo. It reminded her of her fountain-pen ink in its bottle, when looking down its wide-necked top. Midnight blue-black, the label said. The most striking feature about him was the difference between his eyebrows and his hair. His hair was thin and turning gray, his eyebrows thick, and a warm sienna brown. His clothes were a nearly an American businessman’s uniform as possible—white shirt with soft collar, gray suit with an innocuous stripe, and a plain dark blue tie.

  “I hope you’ve had enough to eat,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. They had been over an hour too late to eat with the cruise passengers. They had lunched alone on hors d’oeuvres, cold cuts, and a bottle of wine, splitting the cost of all but the wine, which he insisted should be his contribution.

  “I’ve had plenty to eat,” and she wished she had the confidence to add, And too much to drink. She never had wine in the middle of the day. Sometimes a glass of sherry when her mother and she were lunching at the home of one of her sisters-in-law. It always made her sleepy. Moreover, this was the hour she rested, according to her Cascade schedule. Cascade was the name of Doctor Jaquith’s sanatorium in Vermont.

  It had been a strenuous morning for an invalid. Her companion had been interested in every unusual detail Gibraltar has to offer a first visitor, from its fortress at the top of the rock to its monkeys which occasionally wander down to the town from their caves on the sides of the rock. He had spent over an hour among the shops, frequently consulting a small black leather book which he had produced from his breast pocket. One of his daughters, he explained, wanted a certain brand of perfumery which she’d heard one could get cheap in Gibraltar; and another, a certain kind of English sweater; and he’d also like to find something right for a girl around twelve. He would be grateful to her if she could direct him to the right shops for such articles. She had gone farther. She had helped him select the articles.

  “You’re not at all what I’d expected you’d be like, Miss Beauchamp,” he remarked, draining his cup and pushing it aside.

  “As we met for the first time only two days ago, how could you possibly expect what I’d be like?” she asked in that supercilious tone which she had learned to employ to conceal self-consciousness.

  “Oh, but I’ve heard of you! And you’re quite different from what I expected.”

  “Pray how am I different?” she inquired briefly, making her smoke screen still thicker by a condescending shrug.

  “You’re so much more comfortable. I mean—” She saw a slight suggestion of dark color beneath the swarthiness of his face. It immediately steadied her. “I mean you’re so much easier to talk to,” he floundered. “I’ve heard a lot about your weekends up there at your farm in Connecticut, and your monologues, and how clever you are. I have a friend who goes to your famous parties sometimes, and he’s told me about them. Classmate of mine at college. Frank McIntyre. Have you seen Mack lately?”

  “No. Not lately.” She paused. “Nor ever,” she added. “I don’t know Mack.”

  “But he told me—”

  “Please listen. I’m not Renée Beauchamp. Renée is out in Arizona somewhere. A few days before this boat sailed she had an invitation from some friend of hers to visit his ranch.”

  “But the ship’s hostess introduced you as Miss Beauchamp. And this morning Thompson—”

  “I know. And the headwaiter, and the deck steward too—they all think I’m Miss Beauchamp. But the purser knows all about it. I took Renée Beauchamp’s space at the last moment—too late for my name to appear on the first passenger list printed. Renée was booked only as far as Nice. Naturally if you know anything about Renée Beauchamp, you know she isn’t the type to be taking this cruise, or any cruise, if she can help it.”

  “Oh! Isn’t she? I suppose you are getting off at Nice, then?”

  “No, I’m taking the whole trip.”

  “As Miss Beauchamp? Keeping your own identity a secret?”

  “That’s an idea! But no, the only reason I didn’t correct the mistake up there on the deck when we were introduced was because there was such a crowd it would have been awkward.”

  “Oh, then you do remember meeting me on the deck! Let’s have a liqueur on the strength of it. What do you say?”

  Before she could say anything
he had pushed back his chair and had gone in search of a waiter. She remembered perfectly when Miss Demarest, the ship’s hostess, had introduced them. It had been her first day on the deck—her first appearance in her borrowed clothes since her transformation that last hurried day in New York.

  She had lain in a state of half torpor for the first three days out of port, and for the next two had remained in her stateroom, grateful for disagreeable weather, disagreeable physical symptoms, for anything that provided an excuse for remaining a few days longer in hiding.

  She had carefully kept in the background when the other passengers gathered at the deck railing to exclaim on the spectacular sight of the Azores which had appeared at the sunset hour, green as June peas on the pewter-gray sea. They were the first sight of land since the New Jersey coast had disappeared five days ago, and the first clear sunset. She was seated in her steamer chair, or rather in Renée Beauchamp’s steamer chair (it still bore her name), when Miss Demarest spied her and exclaimed with a squeal of delight, “Oh Miss Beauchamp! At last! I want to introduce you to these people!” And she had routed her out of the chair, and led her to a group of strangers of which this man had been one. They hadn’t exchanged a single word.

  “I’ve ordered two Cointreaus,” he announced when he again returned to the sunny table. “I hope that is all right for you. Is that the coast of Africa over there?”

  “No, no, no! Spain!” she laughed.

  “Bullfights. Matadors. Grilled ironwork. Señoritas,” he sighed, gazing wistfully. “That is, if the old traditional Spain is Hemingway and Carmen. I’ve never been there. The fact is I’ve never been much of anywhere east of New York,” he laughed. “I’d give anything if I could be in your shoes and take the whole cruise.”

  “Where are you leaving the boat?”

  “At Nice, worse luck. I’m on my way to Milan on business. Look here,” he broke off, “if you aren’t Miss Beauchamp, who are you, please?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” she said, glancing down at her unfamiliar foot. Not since a specialist in orthopedics had told her mother 20 years ago that she required a certain low-heeled, wide-toed shoe had she worn anything else. Again she wished she dared to reply, If there’s any truth in the adage, “Clothes make the man,” then at present I’m my sister-in-law, Lisa.